In Memory of Sallie Scott

There’s a ton of stuff that’s rolling around in my head, some semi-clever or marginally profound ideas, several of which I’ve already started to put into words and several more that I’m hoping will eventually get there. But I’m not ready with any of it.

So then I open yesterday’s mail and discover that one of my favorite teachers died on Deb and my wedding anniversary. Her name was Sallie Scott. She deserves more than this, but I know from experience that if I don’t get something down now, my sense of inadequacy will only grow and I won’t write anything.

She was only 59 when she passed. She taught at Big Sky and Sentinel High Schools in Missoula, Montana. Sallie Scott affected me deeply. I only had her for one class, Humanities, which I took in my junior year, but it was probably my favorite from all of high school and it was certainly the source of many of my fondest memories of those teenage years. The facts that I developed a deep appreciation for literature (and especially for William Blake), that I finally concluded that a literary (v. systematic, dogmatic or philosophical) approach to the Bible is the most frutiful, that I believe that we, the Church, can do so much better, and that I still aspire to write all owe a great deal to her guidance and inspiration. The following is a random recollection.

She had the most amazing wit and, as I recall, she was the most delightfully sarcastic instructor I have ever had. I won’t name any names, but one of my friends would sometimes try to fake his way through an answer when called on in class. My friend was a bright and funny young man and not a bad student, but sometimes he got it wrong. Mrs. Scott would listen attentively and thoughtfully and then proclaim, with just a touch of mirth and, yes, derision, “Clean miss, Jim.” It got to the point that it was so much fun hearing her say that I would secretly hope for him to be called on and be wrong. I’m so sorry, Jim. And I’m sorry I mentioned your name, but it just didn’t sound as good without your name at the end of it.

Mrs. Scott seemed to genuinely enjoy everything we studied and, as I remember it, she was laughing all of the time. If she wasn’t overtly laughing, there was a laugh hidden somewhere in her voice or in the corner of her eye.

Mrs. Scott was not too tall (okay, she was short), but she was a powerful and commanding presence. And as I’ve already mentioned, she didn’t coddle.

Mrs. Scott recognized my background and was always calling on me to explain a biblical story, when it was appropriate. This did a few things for me. 1) It made me nervous that I was going to get something wrong, but then increasingly confident that I did know a thing or two. 2) It opened my eyes to the pervasive, foundational and profound impact that the Jewish and Christian scriptures have had even on so-called secular society and culture. 3) It fostered a growing disappointment and discontent that so many in our culture–especially those who claim to literally stake their eternal lives on it–know almost nothing about the Bible. BTW, just to be clear, Mrs. Scott clearly did, as she often demonstrated by filling in a fact or two that I had omitted; I think she was just calling on me to be nice.

I really didn’t know much about Mrs. Scott’s faith, but I knew that she knew the Word and appreciated it as a literary masterpiece and the source and subtext for most of Western literature and philosophy. As it turns out, in her life outside the classroom, she was a woman of great faith. And, in the end, her sense of the story and beauty of Scripture have come to mean so much more to me than the sense of theological correctness I had heard most of my life, up to that point, from the Church.

Mrs. Scott introduced me to Northrop Frye, with whom I don’t always agree but whose sprawling prose and enduring belief in an eternal narrative, the ubiquitous Christ, type and archetype are still essential to my understanding not only of literature but of all art and life.

Again, recognizing who I was and what I valued, Mrs. Scott lent me two books that year that continue to rock my world.

One was Freud’s “The Future of an Illusion,” the famous psychologist’s scathing critique and ultimate dismissal of religion. By no means did the book undermine my faith. Instead, as I am sure she expected, it gave me deeper insight and respect for valid perspectives that are different from mine. In fact, some of Freud’s critique hurts because it’s true. On the other hand, much of what he says derives from flawed presuppositions and thinly veiled prejudices of his own. In any case, Sallie respected me enough to challenge me to find out for myself.

Sallie Scott is also the person who introduced me to William Blake. In fact, she handed me a facsimile edition of Blake’s illuminated landmark, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. The world could not contain the volumes to express what this did for my world view. The image of plate 5, the inverted horse and rider, is forever engraved (and, I suppose, water-colored–inside Blake joke) on my mind. And the accompanying text is, to this day, among my favorite passages from all of English literature. Here’s an excerpt:

“But in the Book of Job Miltons Messiah is call’d Satan.

For this history has been adopted by both parties.

It indeed appear’d to Reason as if Desire was cast out, but the Devils account is that the Messiah fell, & formed a heaven of what he stole from the Abyss.”

Realize, I was in a fundamentalist church and I believed what I was being taught there (and, if I’m honest, to a great extent, still do). To me this looked like it might be blasphemy (forget the provocative text and images; consider just the title) but I loved it. And it had so much more depth than the spin-doctored sermonizing and prooftexting to which I was accustomed. As I would find out, Blake was a devout follower of Jesus and meant not (at least not only) to deride the Church but to rescue her from the bondage to which she had submitted.

I had already come to realize I couldn’t follow the Falwells and Robertsons of this world and was unwilling to accept their narrow and, frankly, false, interpretation of righteousness. In Blake I found a friend, mentor and source of great solace when all the world around me seemed finally insane. Blake, like Mrs. Scott herself, was unafraid to laugh at the self-important defenders of propriety; William and Sallie were willing to boldly fight for freedom and human dignity even if the church or larger culture felt that such values were somehow inconvenient, extraneous or out of place. Blake understood and articulated the truth that the Holy Spirit acts preeminently in imagination and exuberant creativity and not at all, as we so often suppose, with oppression and accusation, with “mind-forg’d manacles of fear.”

Sallie, I will always remember your humor, your passion for literature and thought, your loving concern for your students, your insight and thoughtfulness, your intelligence. And I can’t ever forget your face–that sometimes sardonic, but still somehow gentle, smile and those laughing eyes–or your voice. Thank you for who you are and how you lived and what you taught and thank you for changing so many lives as I know you did mine. I have no doubt that you are laughing still.

8 comments

You really talked about her a lot. Though I can’t claim to remember anything of what you said. I just recall that you deeply appreciated and enjoyed her.

As I read this, I began to realize how much of an impact this woman must have really had on me. Though I do not recall that I ever actually met her.

So many of the things I most appreciate about my own perspectives and approach to life and thought are, in some sense, a vague reflection of those things that you learned, in part, from her. (Let’s face it… there are some things about the way I do life and the way that I approach arguments and literature and ideas that bother me. And there are some that I love and wouldn’t dream of trying to change.) It makes sense. Anyone who impacts someone so profoundly should, naturally, have a fair degree of residual impact upon that individual’s children.

I am sorry to hear this. But I am definitely thankful for the influence that she had in those 59 years.

Yeah, a lot came together for me in that class and it took someone special to make it happen. I think one of the coolest things is that, like they say, it was all about facing into the conflict instead of trying to ignore, avoid or deny it. And there’s a fundamental virtue in diversity that we often miss in the midst of homogenizing, simplifying and rounding off the corners. And laughter is essential. One of the things that most pleases me is that you understand and live those truths.

I couldn’t help thinking of your mother as I was writing all of this, and your closing comments apply even more to some of the hope that we have in the wake of her death. It’s obviously harder because of the closeness and even deeper connection, but this helps me to see a little more clearly that there is life here on the other side–and a good life at that. It makes me very glad, even through the tears, to think of those who will someday say the things what you just said about Sallie about Deb, because almost unconsciously (and in a way that is all your own), you live your mother’s legacy. It is a beautiful one and you live it well.

Joel,
You don’t know me, but it is Sunday night and I’m sobbing in front of my computer reading your account of Sallie. She was my mom, you see. I am her youngest child, her only daughter.
In the wake of her passing, I find comfort in very little. I miss her laugh, her wisdom, yes, her stature.
Thank you for your words and your gentle handling of my mother’s passing. You may never know the gift you have given me and my brothers.
Love,
Gillian Hughes Fetz
Daughter of Sallie Hughes Scott

I’m humbled, honored and, indeed, happy if I’ve made any positive contribution. And thank you for your very kind words.

Your mother was a remarkable woman and I am so thankful that I got to know her even the little bit that I did. As you can see above, her impact continues even to the next generation (and I am sure beyond).

I’m a little embarrassed that what I wrote is so sprawling and spur-of-the-moment, but perhaps that is further testament of its sincerity. I feel like I was blessed with some great teachers but your mother stood out among them.

I won’t pretend to make sense of what you’re going through. It would be the depth of hypocrisy because I haven’t made much sense of my own losses, least of all the most recent; death sucks. But I hope you will not think me too bold if I say that you have been extraordinarily blessed–and that’s part of why it hurts so much. Not everyone has the kind of memories that you have; not everyone carries in their heart the inheritance that you have received. I’ll be honest: to me, that’s not much consolation–or at least it’s not enough. But it is an enormous something–perhaps ironically–to be thankful for, even while it adds to your pain. I really should shut up. The truth is, like most folks, I don’t know what to say. I want to say something, but I don’t know what it should be.

In any case, I pray and believe that somehow you will find comfort and joy and hope and that you will know great grace in the wake of your loss.

Thanks again for sharing–and even for taking the time to read what I wrote and for putting up with its deficiencies.

Oh, how wonderful it was to hear first-hand from a student of Sallie’s who captured her essence so powerfully. Everyone she met was a student of Sallie’s: she taught us to savor life and to love lattes and reading and each other and especially, her. I will never stop missing her.